


Disquiet

by startwithsparks



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Comfort Food, Epidemics, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 01:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While cleaning up after the cholera scare (The King Came Calling), Jackson finds a thinly-strung Hobbs in desperate need of some personal attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disquiet

He'd lost track of how much time had passed, sitting there with a cup of water held tightly between his palms. It had been pleasantly cool when Drake first pressed it into his hands, saying how he didn't look well and touching a rough hand to his forehead to check for fever. He wasn't unwell, just tired from the day, and overwhelmed by everything he'd seen. He may have been a constable in Whitechapel, where all the ills of society seemed to stand boldly in the open, but he was still very wet and there were still a good many things he had never experienced.

When the last round of cholera hit the city, his own father had barely been older than Hobbs was now, but he grew up hearing about the lives lost to it. There wasn't a soul in London who didn't fear its return, and the panic caused by these illnesses had reached well inside the department. If men with decades over him were shaken by the mere whisper, what hope did he have to brave it through to the other side? That was what he tried to tell himself as he stood there in the dead room, hands trembling and nervous, trying not to think about the fact that he might he might be up to his elbows in something that wanted to see him dead and in the ground before his next breakfast. And even though the threat had now passed, it had taken root so deeply that he couldn't shake it.

It didn't matter whether or not he knew that there was no harm in it, he still couldn't bring himself to lift the cup and drink. Instead, he sat on a bench outside, away from the noise of bodies being moved from the dead room and back to their own departments for handling, and the shuffle of them men rushing around getting things cleaned up. If they had need of him, someone would call for him, but for now, he preferred to sit here and watch the city slowly grow dark.

That was the state Jackson found him in, still looking pale and uncertain. He tipped a flask to his lips and rest a hand on Hobbs' shoulders, startling him out of his daze.

"You look like hell, boy..." Jackson appraised, casting a scrutinizing glance down at him.

"I'm sorry, sir..." Hobbs blushed, trying to pull himself together again. He straightened up and ran a hand through his hair to tame it into place, barely noticing the tremor in his hand or the comforting way Jackson pat his shoulder.

"Don't get yourself worked up," he said with a soft smile, "it was only an observation." He pulled his hand back to tuck his flask into his jacket again, buttoning up against the cool night air. "Why don't you come back to the house with me and get yourself something to eat."

Hobbs glanced up at him blankly, staring for a few brief moments before he shook his head. "I'm not sure if I should..."

But Jackson persisted, "I don't see any reason why not."

There were, in fact, quite a few reasons why he shouldn't go with Jackson, not the least of which was that he lived in a brothel and had an extremely well-deserved reputation. As good a surgeon as he was and as often as Hobbs heard Reid say they needed someone like him around, that didn't mean that his Inspector approved of Jackson's personal life. And even though Drake, and quite a few of their peers as well, made social calls on the girls there, it wasn't the kind of place Hobbs ever felt comfortable. Even when he was sent to drag Jackson out of bed or see that someone else was back in their proper place at the station, he spent as much time as possible with his gaze trained on the floor in an attempt to keep his cheeks from turning vibrantly red.

Hobbs chewed on his lower lip and started to shake his head again, but Jackson only held out a hand and beckoned for the glass with his fingers. "You'll need something stiffer than that, and I promise I won't tell your ma that you've been fraternizing with us undesirables."

He could tell Jackson was teasing, but that didn't make him feel any better. Now he felt like he'd insulted the older man and _had_ to go with him to make amends. It wasn't that he saw Jackson as unsavory, only that he was understandably concerned about it reflecting poorly on him in his professional life if he was seen walking into a brothel. But the longer he looked up at the man, the more he could see why Reid bent over backward to accommodate him and his various idiosyncrasies; he was incredibly persuasive without having to plead his case in the slightest.

With a sigh, Hobbs handed over the glass, which Jackson tucked safely on a ledge inside the doorway, then reached out to help Hobbs to his feet. He was about to protest that he didn't need it, but once he was up, he could feel how shaky his knees were under him. He was so much more exhausted than he expected to find himself and was grateful for the steadying hand at his elbow and the man next to him willing to take some of his weight and walk slowly.

Blessedly, it wasn't a long trip. Hobbs had no doubt that Jackson could walk it half out of his mind, so toting along a miserable young constable would be no heavy burden. He was also astonishingly sober for so late in the day, though perhaps Hobbs could see some virtue in a drink after a day like today. But he was grateful for the quiet once they stepped inside. Most men were apparently still locked away in their own houses for fear of what the air may carry, while the girls sat idly and barely lifted a gaze towards either one of them. Only Miss Hart glanced up from where she sat at the far end of the drawing room as they moved through, keeping a keen eye on them both as they ascended the stairs. Hobbs couldn't help but let his gaze linger on her a moment more, until Jackson tugged him along with a faint, "Pay no mind..."

There was some idle chatter among the others at the station about precisely what their relation was to one another and why she allowed him to board in her house, but Hobbs tried as hard as possible to avoid getting involved with gossip and speculation, even if some other men carried on like old hens. If Jackson wanted anyone to know, he would tell him, and the rest was his business alone. It was that resolve that Hobbs used to tamp down his curiosity as Jackson swung open a door and directed him inside.

"Make yourself at home," he said, tossing his hat up on the rack and shrugging off his jacket. "I'll go down and get us a bite in a bit if you warm up to the idea of dinner, but for now... you need a drink."

Hobbs' hands were halfway to the top button of his coat when Jackson made the assertion, and he huffed softly as he pulled his thin arms from the sleeves and hung his coat up as well. It was very odd for him to be so at ease in another person's home, but he contributed the casual air to the cultural differences between himself and the American; after all, they did quite a few things differently where Jackson came from. Instead, he glanced around uncertainly and waited to be shown a chair, letting Jackson press a small glass of scotch into his hand as he sat.

"There now," he said, "whatever was in _that_ water was burned out long before you were born."

"Thank you," Hobbs murmured politely, taking a small sip before resting the glass on the table next to him. The liquor started to warm him as it worked its way down his throat, but he knew he'd need more than a drink before he could feel it start to burn away the day. He leaned back in the chair, sliding his hands slowly over the arms. "How do you do it?" he finally asked.

Jackson had just poured himself a glass and was sitting down when Hobbs spoke. He paused, looking up at the younger man for a moment, and then eased himself down. "What's that?"

Hobbs shook his head, as though he were trying to rattle his thoughts into place, "How do you look at death so closely every day and still manage to... live?"

He held up his glass, giving a wry grin as he nodded towards it. "This is how," he answered. "This and reminding myself that without the service I provide, good men like you wouldn't be able to their jobs nearly as well."

"Aren't you ever afraid, though? If it _had_ been cholera today..." he asked, reaching for his own glass again, though he only held tightly it between his hands.

"I'm more afraid of being shot at most days," he replied conversationally. "With science, we have some control over what damage an unseen enemy can do to us, it's much more frightening to be in a situation where you have no control at all. We get so few opportunities to take command over anything in our lives."

Hobbs nodded, lifting the glass to his lips and taking a much healthier drink this time, trying not to wince as it burned down his throat and sent tingles of warmth across his cheeks and chest. When he looked up again, unsure if he had another question to ask or not, he found Jackson staring curiously at him - an elbow propped on the arm of his chair and his chin nestled between the curve of thumb and forefinger. He glanced back, head canting uneasily to the side in a wordless inquiry. Jackson merely smiled at him and sipped at his scotch again.

"You don't drink much, do you?" he asked.

"No, sir..."

"Maybe I should get you something to eat before the liquor goes to your head."

He blushed, but nodded again, trying to disguise the heat in his cheeks as a product of the liquor and not Jackson's attention. Lately, the man had been paying more attention to him, inviting him into the dead room, giving him lessons on various postmortem details so he could be more efficient in the field. Hobbs thought he was learning very quickly, but the more adept he became at it, the more Jackson wanted him to assist - which was really how they'd gotten to this point. He had to wonder if Jackson wasn't privately waiting to see where his breaking point was; if so, they'd certainly found it after today.

But it was no sooner than he finished the thought than Jackson was to his feet again, squeezing his shoulder gently as he walked past and stepped out of the room. Despite his natural urge towards propriety, which had been impressed firmly onto him from birth, he was relieved that they wouldn't be dining in the kitchen. He wasn't sure he could bear the girls' looks and get through a meal at the same time. He was embarrassed to be there, though he wouldn't readily admit it in front of Jackson for fear of insulting him (again), and while he hadn't searched very hard for a good reason to refuse the invitation, part of him wished that some excuse had made itself available regardless. The thought of someone seeing him there and making assumptions that Hobbs had no good means of correcting still caused him a good deal of anxiety. He was a terrible liar and anything he said would no doubt give the impression that he was being false - because he would be. There was no way to explain, without also condemning himself in the worst way, that he had followed Jackson there like an adoring pup, eager to be accepted.

The image struck him as both incredibly appropriate and uncomfortable. He had no doubt that he looked like the worst sort of stray mutt - pale and shaking, easily startled, with his stomach in knots - until Jackson led him home and gave him warmth and a full belly. He blushed deeper at the thought, dragging his palms nervously over the front of his thighs as he drew in a steadying breath. It did little to banish the warmth from his cheeks, but it did calm his racing heart just enough that by the time Jackson returned he could look at him without thinking about how much he truly needed the older man's approval.

Jackson seemed unencumbered by the three plates he carried with him - two of which carried hashed meat and gravy and the third piled with thick chunks of cheese and bread - and didn't so much as waver as he placed them down on the table, sliding Hobbs' easily towards him. He was also, gratefully, oblivious to any worsening of the nervous energy around Hobbs.

"It's a little cold," he shrugged, pushing his chair up to the table, "but it's still good. Eat up."

While Jackson leaned back and tore at a piece of bread, Hobbs meekly slid forward to the edge of his chair, rather than dragging it closer to the table. He was careful and rigid, while Jackson slung an ankle across his knee and watched in amusement, letting his plate sit untouched until Hobbs tasted it. He forgot himself briefly as he did, and had to cover his mouth to stifle a noise as he stared across at Jackson's grin.

"This is incredible!" he said, resting his fork at the edge of his plate for a moment.

"I thought you might like it," he replied, reaching for a piece of cheese with the end of his knife and plucking it off with his fingers before eating it. "It's been a stressful day for everyone, seems that Susan thought the girls could use something soft tonight."

Hobbs looked curiously back at him, "She doesn't cook, does she?"

"God no!" Jackson snorted, reaching out to nudge the plate of bread closer to Hobbs as he picked up his fork again. "I don't think I've seen that woman in a kitchen once in all the years I've known her. But fortunately for us, there are a few girls here who know their way around a kitchen and remember a few old things from home."

He ducked his head to hide a smile and nodded, "It's amazing what a good meal can do for a man," he said softly.

Jackson's smile softened, "In that case, there's plenty more where that came from."

Hobbs didn't have to thank him, he didn't have to say anything at all about how grateful he was for this because the next time he looked up he could tell that Jackson already knew. It was a different smile entirely than the wry, sometimes disingenuous expression that usually sat in its place. He got the feeling that very few people had seen that private smile, the suggestion of something more at the corner of his lips, and his stomach twist with a realization that not even hope had grappled for. And though they fell into silence for the rest of the meal, nothing but the gentle clicking of metal against their plates, he didn't think that any more needed to be said after that. Hobbs understood that Jackson had somehow figured out what he needed and offered it freely, without expectation of reciprocity. It was more than just a meal, it was the reassurance that, even after a day like today, he was safe.


End file.
